The Mercenary Called Smith
by Falyons
Summary: Some are heroes, helping all those they find. Other are mercenaries, taking all opportunities as they come. Smith is of the latter. But his newest job may change that. For he will lead a journey that will change everything. DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fallout
1. Chapter 1: Amber Drops

The problem, he thought, was that he just wasn't threatening enough.

Smith was dressed in a pre-war business suit. A very striking and clean suit, one that did entreat himself to most city dwellers in Megaton and Rivet City, but unfortunately didn't impress raiders at all. A sad thing, especially for a mercenary. Fear was its own currency in the Wasteland. One he lacked.

He pulled out an apple from his jacket and paused for a moment. He really did need to get that terrifying look down. Although looking scary in the middle of the afternoon was almost impossible.

Still, if there was one thing the Wanderer had taught him, it was to leave a lasting impression. And what better way than to wear a suit?

He liked the suit anyway. Although finding time to wash and dry it was more than a little inconvenience. As was keeping it from being torn.

But it had pockets. That alone made it more practical than any combat armor he'd ever seen.

It did make this job harder, however. If he was the Wanderer, decked out in full power armor, plasma rifle in hand, and a seven foot tall super mutant and rabid dog at his side, convincing the raiders to stop gambling in the bar would be easy. But he did not have any of those things.

So he had to get creative.

That was his specialty. It had to be. He couldn't fight head on, not the way the Brotherhood or 101 did. It made his skin crawl when the bullets passed him and made it hard to shoot straight. He was a one-shot kind of guy. Which, hopefully, lent a hand to killing raiders.

Smith polished the apple with his sleeve. He took a bite slowly from the apple and looked at it in the light. It didn't look that appetizing anymore. Especially with the black spots. And the smell.

He surveyed the town, deciding to ignore the offending apple for as long as possible. He hadn't been here in a long time, but it seemed to be the same as always. It was dry, but the whole area was dry. It was a nuclear wasteland. But it was the little things that stuck out in his mind. He could see a few children jumping from the sheet metal roofs. He could hear Nova arguing with Jericho, loudly proclaiming that he did not belong here and had to leave. And most of all, he could smell it. The sweat, the blood, the brahmin pies. It was mixing and fermenting, creating a distinct smell Smith had never quite forgotten.

And he saw the raiders.

Not actually see them, of course. They wouldn't lurk outside and be subject to a mob of settlers. They were inside, where any such mob would hesitate before attacking. But he could see the people's unsettled eyes, their slow walking and hesitant moves. There were raiders here, no doubt. Unless Smith was scarier than he previously thought.

Raiders. Back in the old days, they lived up to their name. Pillaging, killing, causing hell. Not so much now. Not with the Alliance, the combined force of the Brotherhood, Regulators, and Rivet security on their tails. And sure as hell not with 101 always lurking around these parts, itching to blow one of their heads off in his typical fashion. Nowadays they were usually kids who couldn't join the Brotherhood because they couldn't handle the power armor training.

Oh yes, the Brotherhood. Even though this chapter had started out as a small dispatch, they were the largest military force around now. Recruiting actively. Growing constantly. Killing periodically. An organization to be reckoned with.

Smith hated the Brotherhood. Not because of doctrine or private feuds but because of their sheer size. Massive and clunky, just like their armor. They were usually stuck with the big problems, like the super mutants and the occasional Enclave squad. They had little leeway in choosing their work. They were reaching the point where they were essentially an army. And an army needs structure. Structure that hadn't quite set in yet. That made them the equivalent of an overgrown child not used to its new-found strength. Smith had dealt with the bureaucracy before and hated it. Too damn slow for it to be effective. He preferred mercenaries. At least they were straightforward. Cash up front and the job's done.

Besides, the last thing he wanted was to be part of the same organization as the Wanderer. It brought up too many unfair comparisons. Especially considering the difference in skill.

He sucked with rifles. He sucked a lot. He couldn't line up the cross-hairs and keep his arm steady. Pistols, oddly enough, weren't a problem. It was only rifles. And the big guns, of course. Though that was more of a matter of preference. He didn't need to overcompensate. Not that he could say the same for the Brotherhood of Steel.

The Brotherhood couldn't or wouldn't deal with these raiders anyway. They weren't hurting anyone, just gambling, cursing, and just generally setting people on edge. They were not even Raiders anymore. Just a children's gang, playing rather than doing.

But Smith was going to take care of the job anyway. He was paid to, and that was his code. Payment was binding.

At least, it was for him. Otherwise, he might lose his sanity and kill someone.

He took a small bite from the apple and threw it over the wall. It had lost its taste a while ago. More than 200 years ago, in fact. Why he bothered picking it up in the mall was a mystery.

He entered the bar. Moriarty's, though Moriarty had long since passed. The radio played in the background, tuned to the only radio station anyone played anymore, GNR. Three Dog was finishing his usual rant and began playing more music. He had heard this track so many times, he knew it by heart. He considered smashing the radio but decided not to. Best not to irritate his employers.

Gob gave him a quick look and nodded, pointing his thumb at the table in the corner. He was one of his employers. A ghoul, and one with considerable influence now in the town. While not nearly as powerful as Colin Moriarty was in his heyday, he still was one of the main players in Megaton. If he wanted to, he could easily throw the entire town into chaos. But Gob was not Moriarty. Anything he did was for the good of the town, including this.

Smith walked over. Three raiders surrounded a table, cards in hand, caps in a small pile in the middle. They smelled strongly of alcohol and cigarette and dung and piss and God knows what else. He could hear them swearing, feel them glaring at each other, and even see them spit out their words.

He smiled. They were playing poker.

They noticed him quickly enough. With the typical gifted grace characteristic of Raiders, one of them said, "The heck you looking at, punk?"

Punk. Heck. They really were sanitized now. Couldn't even curse properly. A disservice to their own kind.

Smith cowered a little bit, gave them something to savor. It would be best to keep them happy as long as possible. "Nothing, sir, nothing at all. Just noticing your game and all and thought I might to join."

The one on the far left snorted. "You know how to play poker?"

"Well, no sir, but I'd sure like to try. I got caps and everything. 500, right here." He pulled out a handful of caps from his jacket, letting a few slip through his fingers.

They shared a look. 500 was more than most of them saw in their lifetime, and certainly more than they were gambling with at the moment.

"Join us, kid. I'll teach you all about poker," one said, yellow teeth flashing in a way he probably thought was appealing but instead made him look like a molerat shot up with Jet. He had an eye patch on his right eye, which was rare enough in the wastelands. Most with an injury like that wandered about and then got shot.

Smith took it in stride and pretended to feel reassured by the expression, though in truth he very much wanted to blow his brains out. He pulled a chair out and sat down. The Raiders looked at him with all the poise of starving wolves. They clearly thought they had wandered into a goldmine. He smiled gratefully at them. An honest smile. He was looking forward to this job.

They dealt out cards and explained the hands, or at least tried to. It was a pretty shoddy and bare bones explanation. It barely even skimmed the surface of the game.

He wondered briefly if it was on purpose. They were raiders. He wouldn't put it past them. Then again, they were raiders. They didn't have enough brain cells to cheat that way. Most likely they only had a rudimentary grasp on the game in the first place.

Not that he cared. He already knew how to play.

He followed their lead with the bets, not paying attention to their size. Instead, he took a look at his cards. Two jacks and three cards, offsuit. He took out the three cards.

He looked at them. The one on the left tried to hide his excitement. Probably thought he could get a flush or a straight. On the other hand, the one on the right had a pained look but quickly covered it up with a lopsided grin. A bluff, and a terrible one at that.

It was the middle one that worried him. He couldn't read his eyes. The eye patch distracted him. Damn eye patches. They always seemed to get in his way.

But none of those things should have concerned him. He stopped looking at their expressions. Instead, he decided to concentrate on their weaponry. Each of them had a hunting rifle strapped on their backs. Practical, but it restricted how fast they could draw their weapons.

That was good. He needed that edge. After all, Smith was good but not that good. Not like 101. He could've killed the whole lot of them even if they had their weapons out and loaded. No, he needed those extra seconds desperately.

He checked his new cards. Surprisingly, he had three kings now. Add that to his jacks, and he had a full house.

He sighed. If only he was playing a real game.

He folded. A pain to do so, but one that would pay off. He could always take the caps later.

"Read 'em and weep boys. Flush," Mr. Molerat said. The others groaned, as did Smith. Read 'em and weep? A blatant cliche. It took all of his willpower not to shoot him then and there. Alas, it was much too soon. He was still waiting for the signal.

Oh, the things he did for his job.

The next hand he had absolute trash, but he played it anyway. He knew he would lose this hand. That was fine. Any caps lost would soon be recovered.

He didn't pay attention to the rest of the hand. He didn't actually plan on winning after all. It wouldn't keep them happy.

Instead, he made small talk. " Why are y'all here anyways?" said Smith. It killed him to use such a terrible accent, but it did make it him seem like an idiot. That was a good thing. No one cares if an idiot is listening.

The one in the middle, Molerat, grinned. "We're going to attack the Citadel. Burn the whole place down and bring those bastards down a notch, you know?" He started picking his teeth with his nails. He really was a dirty little roach, but Smith decided to add idiotic to that title. Not many fools dream of attacking a fortress with only two other men.

"The hell you saying? Thought we were gonna keep that a secret," another said. Smith didn't bother giving him a name. Dead fit him well enough. He was just following the idiot and had no ambition of his own. A shame. Although this particular ambition was guaranteed to kill them.

"Ah, don't worry. He won't say nothing. Besides, those bleeders aren't gonna stand a chance. We'll kill them. And then we gonna own the whole Wasteland."

Smith very much doubted that. These idiots had about as much of a chance taking down the Citadel as a bloatfly did a deathclaw.

He did best to adopt a surprised expression, one full of wonder. He did a mediocre job of it, although considering their attempts at geniality, it was more than enough. "You really gonna do that?"

"Yep. Right after we kill all the residents here," said Molerat. He clearly was proud of himself and his plan.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Gob drawing his skinless thumb across his throat.

Showtime.

"I must say," Smith said, shedding the airs he had used before, "you three are officially the biggest idiots I've ever met. Killing you will be a great justice to the world."

Molerat frowned. "Killing us?"

Bang-bang! Bang-bang! Bang! In about five seconds all but one of the raiders were slumped in their chairs, blood pooling below them.

Molerat was still alive, however. The shot buried itself in his cheekbone but not deep enough to kill him. He tried to pull out his rifle, but Smith drew his knife from his jacket quickly and threw it, stopping him before he had a chance.

Smith admired his handiwork. He was getting pretty good with his .32. Although, he thought, glancing at the bodies, he missed the eye on the last one with his knife. He overshot it by about two inches and lodged it in his scalp.

He poked him a few times with his pistol. No, he was dead. If a bit smelly. He took a sniff. More urine.

Smith relaxed in his chair. At least it was over now, he thought. Then he winced. He had most certainly just jinxed himself.

Then the door swung open, slamming against the wall with a heavy crack, as a tall black man in a duster ran in. "I heard gunshots. What happened?" He saw the dead bodies and Smith sitting in a chair next to them and immediately put two and two together. "What did you just do? What the hell did he do?" he said.

"Calm down, Harden," Gob said in a gruff and raspy tone. Being a ghoul, that was the only tone he could speak in.

"Calm down? He just shot and killed three men in the middle of town. You do not tell me to calm down." His voice was steadily raising in dynamic, the tension rising with it. "I am not going to calm down!"

"They were going to attack the Citadel," Smith said.

"Three raiders? That is the worst excuse I've ever heard. You can't tell me you thought they were-"

"They were also going to attack Megaton," Gob said, trying to be helpful. Even after all these years, he still wasn't used to confronting the sheriff.

"Then for God's sake, tell me, not this trigger-happy idiot. I could've talked to them, arrested them if I had to," Harden said, screaming at the ghoul. "Not murder them!"

"That's how your father died, didn't he? Talking, not acting," Smith said.

Harden turned to him. His voice drew quiet; his body became still. "What did you say?"

Smith didn't respond.

Harden walked towards him. "What did you say?" he said, eyes narrowing, hand resting on his pistol. Smith resisted the urge to flinch. That wouldn't help him at all.

"Look, I was just taking care of business, 'kay, Harden? Now if you excuse me," he said, starting to stand up. He certainly didn't want to get in a fight now. Not with one of his pistols unloaded. Better to leave, before things got nasty.

Harden shoved him back into his chair. "Sit down and listen. You do not leave when I am talking to you without my permission. You do not shoot your damn peashooter without my permission. And you do not, under any circumstances, insult my father in my town!"

The two stared at each other, neither speaking.

Gob tensed up. The last thing he wanted was to clean up another dead body.

Then they started laughing. Smith stood and slapped his back. "That was some good acting, Sheriff. You actually had me going there for a second."

Harden said, "Been working on that all day. I finally settled on the angry, tightwad sheriff act."

Smith looked confused. "All day? What do you mean, all day? I just got here a few hours ago." And he had done such a nice job of sneaking around town, avoiding him.

"Couple kids playing saw you approaching. Besides, I could tell you were coming. I saw them pass around the collection to pay you." Harden took great care of his Megaton, which included spying on the settlers there.

Smith sighed. "I thought I could get in here without you noticing."

Harden grinned. "I'm the sheriff. Not one of those half-asleep security officers at Rivet City."

"That's a bit mean. Some of them are completely asleep."

Gob relaxed and went back to polishing his counter. Their little jokes always set him on edge. Nova was better at detecting these jokes, but she was busy taking care of a dispute outside.

They were talking and laughing like the old days as if things had never changed. Time passed quickly as they mentioned friends they hadn't seen in years.

"It's good to see you, Harden. You even have a full beard," Smith said, setting up for yet another joke.

He took the bait. Harden stroked it a few times with a hint of pride. It had taken a few months, but he finally got in the right shape with a nice healthy shine.

"You know what it reminds me of?" said Smith. His mouth twitched, trying not to laugh before the punchline.

"What?"

"It reminds me of Star Paladin Cross's hair."

They laughed riotously. Her ridiculous flat top was the butt of their private jokes. Harden had met her as a kid when she traveled with 101. Smith, on the other hand, had met her a little later. Both had a hard time taking her seriously. It was a terrible haircut for a man and an even worse one for a woman.

"He's looking for you, by the way," Harden said, still laughing from the joke, rubbing his eyes as they watered.

"Who's looking for me?" Smith said, also laughing from the remnants of the joke.

"You know. 101."

He stopped laughing. "What?"

Harden chuckled. The only sure fire way to shut Smith up was to mention the Lone Wanderer. "He's looking for you. He's got a favor to ask."

"A favor," he repeated. "What kind of favor?"

"Oh," Harden said, "the usual."

Smith studied the sheriff closely. He wasn't meeting his eyes, which meant that it was something he knew Smith wouldn't like. His body was shaking a bit, and he was trying very hard not to laugh. Which only meant...

"It's the Brotherhood, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"He's going to kill me if I don't do it."

"Uh huh."

"He's in town too, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Damn it." Smith stood up and ran to the door. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

Harden shrugged. "Hey, that's just how it is." He put his hand on his shoulder, just like he did when they were young. "Come on, what's the hurry? Don't you wanna catch up or something? You won't believe how big Lukey's growing. Almost walked right out of town the other day!"

"I'm sorry but I gotta go," Harden said, pushing the door, "before-"

"Hey, JJ."

"-he gets here."

Standing in the doorway was a women decked out in power armor. The lines in her face made her out to be almost 50, though her eyes spoke of more youthful ages. She held the typical Brotherhood laser rifle in her hands, Smith noting the odd modifications made to it. It appeared to have a bit more kick than the typical one. It took someone with a steady aim to use it.

Which excluded Smith. How he wished he could use rifles.

"Were you actually attempting to run away from us?" she said. Her mouth was set in a straight line. Her eyes, on the other hand, suggested she was about to break down laughing. The idea of him escaping was apparently amusing to her.

Smith felt insulted. He wasn't that bad. Well, compared to a normal person at least. Not the Wanderer, of course. Perfect Mr. 101 made everyone seem like a child.

"Lyons." Smith looked her over a few times and cocked his head. "Dear God, you're old."

That wiped the half-smile off her face. With more than a hint of irritation in her voice, Sarah said, "You've certainly gotten taller. Ruder too. I have half a mind to shoot you right now."

Smith grinned. "You wouldn't shoot me. You love me."

She raised her rifle. "Are you sure about that?"

The grin didn't diminish, although he did take a step back. "Where's 101?"

Lyons said, "Taking the back entrance. He thought you'd be smarter than use the front entrance. Clearly he was wrong." The grin stopped.

"It was closer," he said, defending himself. "And I could have made it, if you weren't in my way." _The Brotherhood certainly has a way of doing that. A pattern. A motif, actually, considering all the time it's happened to me. Damn paladins._

"No, you wouldn't have. He would have found you eventually," Harden said. No one escaped from the Wanderer. He had a way of finding you invariably. His perception was second to none. All things Smith knew.

Smith glared at him. Harden raised his hands in deference to the paladin there. He was merely stating the truth, Smith admitted, though he didn't like it.

"You haven't even heard about the job yet," she said.

Smith sighed. "Fine, tell me about it."

"Well, we want you to-"

"Not interested."

Lyons shook her head. "Do you have no respect for the Brotherhood at all? I would have thought, you of all people-"

"Don't go there." Smith crossed his arms, placing each hand on a pistol on each side. It was a warning, but one he knew he couldn't back up. One of the pistols wasn't loaded, and Lyons already had her rifle out and at the ready. It was also a terrible way to draw a pistol, but it was a bluff, and a desperate one at that.

Still, it gave Lyons hesitation, and the two were left at an impasse, neither daring to move. Smith would not work for the Brotherhood, and Lyons would not leave without him. Neither wavered.

Smith suddenly shivered Gob and Lyons looked at him with concern, but Harden knew that twitch. Jay had a supernatural sense when it came to detecting _him._

_Is there no mercy in the world? _he thought.

"I think you should reconsider," a new voice said, approaching from behind, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"The Lone Wanderer." Smith said the word with neither the praise of a Wastelander nor the hatred of a slaver. It was without inflection or pretense.

He didn't turn. He remained staring at Lyons.

"Look at me."

Smith ignored the command. "I'm busy."

"Look at me, JJ."

Against his will, Smith turned around. All the indoctrinating and conditioning from the past was biting him back now.

"You will listen to us."

The man standing there was tall, though Smith had seen taller. It didn't matter. His presence filled the room, his eyes pierced all emotion and inhibition and forced upon fear and respect. He was a legend.

Similar to Lyons, he was dressed in power armor, though his was more bulky and powerful looking. The most visible difference, however, laid in its color. While Lyons had the typical gray armor of the Brotherhood, his was white. Shining, clean white.

Smith knew the story of how he acquired it. He also knew the Brotherhood did not like that at all, as it involved their ex-brethren, the Outcasts. But the Wanderer did what the Wanderer wanted. And God save the soul who dared get in his way.

He held no weapons in his hands. Instead, a plasma rifle was strapped on his back while a plasma pistol hung in its holster on his side. He also most likely had a gatling laser hidden on his person, not that Smith knew how it fit.

Smith didn't bother considering whether he could draw faster than he could. He had enough to experience to tell him no. He lost in every straight fight he had ever gotten into with him.

Against his better judgement, he finally said, "Yes sir." His head dipped slightly, subconsciously recognizing his own weakness compared to him.

The Wanderer nodded. "Good." He lifted his hand and let it fall by his side. "He'll listen now."

Lyons relaxed her hold on the rifle and continued. "We want you to lead a small dispatch south."

"An expedition?"

"Of sorts." Lyons studied him carefully, observing any changes. He was still and expressionless. It was a change that only occurred when the Wanderer was nearby, she remembered. Even as a boy, he hadn't dared insult the Wanderer to his face. "We've heard reports of some advanced technology in that area. Very advanced."

Smith shrugged dismissively. "You've gone south before. Didn't a squad just head to Maryland last year?"

She was surprised that he knew that, though in retrospect, she shouldn't have been. He was older, and after all these years, he had learned something. "Yes, but we're talking farther south. Much farther, actually. Florida."

Smith stiffened. "Florida? You want me to lead a squad to Florida?" Florida. What kind of idiocy was this?

The Wanderer took over. "Yes."

"And why the hell would I want to do that?" Smith shook his head. "No one's been there in ages. Our maps aren't even accurate there anymore." The Great War had devastated the area badly, causing all natural and man-made landmarks to completely disappear.

"Which is why we want you there." Lyons said this with confidence, although inside she had her doubts about the mercenary. Although the Wanderer privately praised him, she had yet to see him in action. As a boy, he never indicated any special ability as a fighter or a scout, the two things most needed in this mission. Still, she trusted 101. She had for a long time. "You have your expertise."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really. What?"

Lyons thought rapidly. "Well, of course you are the best-uh- you have your- uh- I mean, you have that- um-uh-" she said, flustered. She looked at 101. Help me, she mouthed.

Smith's eyes flickered towards 101. "You put her up to this, didn't you?"

The Wanderer didn't answer, but Smith didn't need one. "It's because of those rumors. The disappearances. You think it's _her_."

"Yeah."

"You don't think I can take it? You don't think I'm strong enough to kill her?" His nails dug into his own palms, drawing blood. "I can. And I will, if I have to. Just don't make me do this. Don't make me leave."

"No." The Wanderer walked over to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. He took a long sip from it and closed his eyes. "You're plenty strong. I just don't want you to have to watch."

"I'm staying away from that area. I have for a long time."

"That may be, but you'd still watch. You'd still relive it. Everyday. Even in your dreams." He took another sip. "You need to leave."

Smith tried to speak but then closed his eyes. He let his mind roam for a moment. Then Smith went to the bodies and pulled out his knife. "Fine." He spoke to Lyons now. "I'll go."

Lyons felt relief spread through her body. The squad needed someone with expertise, what with all the rookies on the team. Even if she didn't know what that expertise actually entailed. "We'll leave in the morning to meet up with your new brothers and sisters."

Smith didn't reply. Instead he grabbed a drink at the bar. He didn't want to be sober when he fell asleep. Or when he woke up. Or ever.

Harden joined him. It was going to be a long night, and they had a lot to talk about before he left.

The Wanderer shared a look with Lyons and tilted his head to indicate they should leave. They exited, the Wanderer turning over his glass as he left.

Harden stared at the door for a moment while Smith merely stared at his drink. Neither spoke for a while.

"Damn," Harden said. He was thinking about all the tension in the exchange between Smith and the Wanderer. "That was-"

"Intense?" Smith said, a note of bitterness in his voice. Harden hadn't spoke much during the conversation. He hadn't helped him once. Of course, not many people interrupt the Wanderer. But he was a friend. And he had just stood there, doing nothing.

"Yeah." He leaned back in stool, smiling. "Yeah, it was intense. You two have some serious issues."

Smith snorted. "Tell me about it." He took a long sip and turned his glass over, the lingering amber drops falling onto the floor.

The blood-stained caps laid there on the table, already forgotten in the short time they had been earned. They would remain forgotten until a child picked them up the next day for a game of jackstones.

The bodies remained slumped, their faces still not believing the idiot who approached had in fact killed all of them so easily. Their blood was already drying, their presence already irrelevant to the grand scheme of things. They had served their part and then they had departed.

Gob continued polishing the counter, letting the music flow over them. He was happy, though you couldn't tell it by reading his face. Nothing was broken, and the mercenary had forgotten to ask for his payment. A fairly good day.

And then the music ended. Three Dog came in. It was yet another segment on the _Adventures of the Lone Wanderer. _A rerun, as always.

Smith ordered another drink. Then another. Then another. He drank them all and continued ordering. He was still too sober for his liking.

"So." Harden watched Smith drink glass after glass. His immunity to alcohol still persisted after all these years. Where he put it was a mystery. "You're still a mercenary after all these years."

"Yeah."

"You really should settle down, you know. Me and Maggie, we have it pretty nicely here. You could stay with us if you want. Lukey should meet his godfather." His arm raised up, pointing at him. "You could be happy. Meet a girl. Start a family. Megaton could be your home."

"Nice try." Smith asked for some scotch this time. "But you know I don't do home."

More drinking. Harden shook his head as he watched him wash down the alcohol.

"Are you still having nightmares?" Harden asked after a few shots himself, his voice only slightly slurred. He knew better than to try and drink as much as Smith. His last attempt ended with him halfway down the toilet in the morning.

Smith downed another shot from one of his unused glasses. "If you're trying to cheer me up, that was an awful way of doing it," he said. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, not caring that he was ruining his clean suit. "A godawful way."

Harden chuckled but then grew more serious. "Are you?"

"This is the Wasteland." Smith turned each of the glasses over. "Everyone has nightmares."

That wasn't an answer to his question, though it might as well have been. Harden looked at his friend with concern but finally gave up. He would answer in his own time.

"Then here's to the Wasteland," Harden said, raising his glass with a rueful smirk.

Smith raised his bottle as well and met his eyes. "To the Wasteland."

They drank in silence, the only noise being the tinkling of the glasses as they hit the counter.

More amber drops fell. And it was night.


	2. Chapter 2: Laser Burns

**I appreciate anyone actually reading this thing, especially Cressida Isolde for reviewing it. And yeah, Smith is in fact in Fallout 3. Most of the characters will be, other than the new one you'll meet next. And please review. I really don't know how I'm doing otherwise.**

* * *

><p>"Knock-knock. Hey, wastelander, it's time to go."<p>

Gob, just finished taking a shower, watched her pound at the door repeatedly. Mentally he thanked any god that would take a ghoul that she wasn't wearing power armor, or he would have yet another broken door. And he was already running out of material to use.

She was of medium stature and had her violently red hair tied up in a knot, as most Brotherhood members did. She had just been woken up rather rudely by Lyons at the Citadel and was ordered to run over to Moriarty's as soon as possible. No telling when the kid might bolt, Lyons had told her, and it'd be best to keep a close eye on him. She then had to run hours just to wake up the mercenary, putting her in a bad mood. "Knock-knock. Smith? This is Initiate May Wilson. I'm here to escort you to the Citadel." She listened to the door. It was quiet in the room. "Jesus, are you a prostitute or something? The hell you taking so long for? You awake-"

"He's not here," Gob said, passing her as he walked down the hallway. He had a rag thrown over his shoulder, and he was wearing a clean white t-shirt with a brown vest over it and suspenders. "Hasn't been for about an hour or so."

She glanced over her shoulder. "Of course he is, how the hell'd he get out? We had someone at the front and back entrance at all times." She slammed the door. "Come on, let's go."

"He's not here. Now stop destroying property and go." Gob proceeded to the bar and began setting up stools and tables. "It's bad for business, smoothskin."

"Like hell. I'm Brotherhood, understand, ghoul?" She kicked the door down. "Now where the hell are you?" She walked into the room. It was indeed empty, the bed made, all personal items gone.

She ran back outside. "Where is he? Where the living hell is he? What kind of shit is this?"

Gob barely looked up and continued his work. "Told you he left. And you're paying for that door." He picked up one of the glasses splattered with blood from last night and held it up to light. Clean enough, he thought, and placed back on the bar. Wastelanders won't tell the difference.

"That's impossible," she said, crossing her arms. She was in light recon armor. Gob looked her over briefly. Little scars or muscle. Not recruited but born into the Brotherhood, he concluded. Spoiled brat. "Like I said, we had a guard on each entrance. No one got in or out without express orders from the Citadel."

Gob shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you, Miss," he said, drawing out the last word with disdain. He hated her already. He picked up one of the dead raiders and threw him outside. He hadn't cleaned up last night as Smith and Harden had drank so much, he had to tend the bar past midnight. By the time they left, he gave up on clean up and just slept. "But he clearly isn't here."

"This is unbelievable. This is freakin' unbelievable." She ran a hand through her hair. "Crap. Crap. Crap. What am I going to say to Lyons?"

"You can tell her I just picked up breakfast," Smith said, walking in the front door. In his hand he held a small kebab of Mirelurk meat. "You know, because that's all I did." He took a bite. "Hmm. It tastes alright. Better than the apple, at least." He pulled out a stool and sat down. "Who are you again? And why did you break my door?"

Her eyes almost popped out. "How did you get out?"

"How did you get back in?" Gob said, eyes narrowing. "I just locked that door, not ten minutes ago."

Smith held up a finger as he chewed. After swallowing, he said, "I asked some kid to lockpick the door, Gob. He was pretty good at it too. Faster than I've seen, at least. He could give 101 a run for his money if he tried."

Wilson pointed her rifle at him. "Just tell me how you got out." She was swiftly growing tired of his banter and wanted to know how exactly a person could break out when every entrance was covered. "We covered everything."

He shook his head and pointed his hand upwards. "Not the window. Kind of an oversight if you ask me." He took another bite and frowned. "Hey, Gob, can I have a whiskey? I need something to wash it down."

Gob did the ghoul equivalent of raising an eyebrow, which raising a piece of skin where the eyebrow once was. It looked disturbing to those unused to ghouls, such as Wilson, who nearly pissed her pants. "It's morning. You want a whiskey?"

Smith thought for a moment. "You think vodka would be better?" he amended.

Gob rolled his eyes. "Just drink some water, smoothskin." He poured a small glass, making sure not to use the dirty ones. He would not want to piss off the mercenary lest he shoot him. Besides, any infraction, and he might remember his missing paycheck, which he was using to buy a new door.

Smith took it and drank. "Purified?" he said with surprise. Most people didn't serve true purified water to customers, saving instead for actual citizens, even when it was fairly plentiful nowadays. "Thanks, Gob."

"No problem." Gob returned to setting up his bar, casually kicking over one of the dead raiders to the side. He would ask someone to clean that one up later. Maybe Nova, if she wasn't busy with her clientele.

Smith looked at Wilson. "Want to put down the rifle?" he said. "Not that it really matters, but I'm finding it hard to eat with a gun pointed at my face. It's making me go cross-eyed, and that's not a good look for me."

Wilson glowered but lowered it. "I don't like you," she said.

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"I really don't. You have no respect for the Brotherhood. You have no training. You're not even holding a weapon, damn it!" She glared at him, her face tight, body tense. "You're useless. And you're supposed to lead a squad to Florida? You'll barely make it to Rivet City!"

Smith raised an eyebrow. "Did you not see the pistols at my hip?" he said, tapping them three times in succession. "They kind of do count as weapons," he said, smirking.

She smirked back. "I meant real weapons."

He groaned inwardly. Yet another critic. "Look, girl-"

"Wilson."

"Whatever. I'm only doing this because he told me to. I really don't give a damn about the Brotherhood, that's true enough. And I don't have power armor training like you. But trust me when I say I can handle myself." He glanced at Gob. "Where's the trashcan here anyway? I think I'm tired of eating Mirelurk. I'm going with molerat next. Maybe with that scotch."

She gave up and sighed. "To hell with you then." She turned to the door. "I'm leaving now, whether or not you're coming."

Smith stood up and strode to the door. "I'm going, I'm going. Just let me grab my backpack." He pulled it from the coat rack and waved a hand at Gob. "Have a nice day, creepy zombie freak!"

"You too, smoothskin peashooter triggerhappy idiot bastard."

Smith winced over-dramatically. "I think you won."

They left, the door shutting with firm thud as it hit the frame.

Gob grinned. He still hadn't paid a cap. He whistled a little tune as he turned on the radio. To his surprise, it was the same song. What do you know, he thought. Today's just my lucky day. Then he looked at the door.

"Damn Brotherhood," he muttered. He'd ask Jericho to fix it in exchange for staying in the bar another night. Even if Nova didn't like it.

Outside, Wilson walked purposefully, staring down any settler that dared look at her. Smith followed behind her, tapping his pistols to an upbeat rhythm. He could see her growing irritated from the sound and grinned. This was much too easy. He would have to pace himself.

Reaching the gate, she banged against the sheet metal. "Open the doors."

Smith leaned against the wall. "Is that how you treat most people?" He brushed one of his sleeves, surprised to find a stain. "It's a little rude, isn't it?" He twirled one of his pistols. "I'd think a true Knight would act with more chivalry."

"Shut up or I'll shoot you."

"Understood. Shutting up now."

Smith waited while she tried to get the gate open, finding himself lost in thought. _She _was alive. And killing. Enough so that the Wanderer was going to actually take care of it himself.

He felt his nails dig into his palms again. _She _was alive and still hadn't learned a thing. Not even from last time. And he wasn't there anymore to save her.

It was happening all over again. Dear God, it was happening all over again.

Except now, he wasn't a part of it. He was going to be long gone when it was over, in some unknown land man hadn't walked in centuries. And _she _was going to die. _She _was going to be brought to justice. And he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop it.

The metallic groaning of the gate as it opened brought him out of his reverie. Standing up straight, he said, "Took you long enough."

She pointed the rifle again. "You're talking."

"Right. Gotcha."

"Useless idiot," she spat, and walked away.

He knew he could kill her if he wanted. She was an initiate and had little combat experience. She hadn't even loaded the thing all the way. A rookie. He could bat it out of the way with one hand and stab her in the neck with his knife before she could even react. Or he draw his pistol and fire while moving to his right, as she didn't seem acclimatized to shooting a moving target. It would just take a few seconds, and then-

But Smith didn't bother. Killing her would do nothing for him. Worse, it would hurt him. Every paladin in the Wasteland would be on him, and Smith entertained no notions of being able to kill every single one of them. One inexperienced initiate, yes. Several dozen highly armed and pissed off paladins, not so much. So he went with her. No matter how easy it would be to kill her.

Wilson proceeded, unaware the "useless idiot" behind her had her life in his hands. Smith followed her towards a brahmin caravan. A man who appeared to be a merchant pulled out a plasma rifle and gestured for them to get a move on.

In spite of himself, Smith smiled. All the cloak and dagger stuff, and chances were that entire town knew they were Brotherhood.

They began walking, the merchant leading them, followed by Smith with Wilson bringing up the back.

"You know," Smith said, feeling her rifle poke at his back after a few hours, "if you wanted to admire the view, all you had to do was ask. I could do a little sashay, wiggle my hips-"

Wilson jabbed her rifle even further into his back. "Keep walking," she hissed.

"I'm not a prisoner," he said, though he personally felt like one. "I don't see why you keep treating me like one."

"Shut up," she said. She hit him with the butt of the rifle in the back. He fell forward from the impact. "I'm sick and tired of you Wastelanders coming into the Brotherhood and acting like you own the place. Now walk!"

The merchant looked back but did nothing. It wasn't his problem.

Smith closed his eyes. Then he stood.

"That hurt," he said. He brushed off the dust as best he could but gave up when he noticed it did nothing. He pulled out his backpack and grabbed another suit. Pulling his shirt over his head, he turned to her and said, "Do you mind?"

"What the hell are you doing?" she said.

"I'm changing. Now if you could," he said, twirling his finger, "I'd like some privacy."

She looked at him disbelievingly. After a few moments of her not turning, he shrugged and pulled off his pants.

That got her to turn. And blush furiously.

While changing, he started talking. "Where's Lyons anyway? She said she was going to take me there, not send an initiate."

"Something came up." She had her eyes closed and her hand covering those eyes. A redundant act, but it made her forget about the naked ma- no, no it didn't, she had to think about something else.

"Really? What?"

"It's Brotherhood business." Honestly, was this idiot deaf?

"Hm? What did you say?"

"I said, it was Brotherhood business," she said louder.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that."

Irritated, she turned around and shouted, "I said, it's-"

"Do you mind? I'm changing," he said with a grin. His shirt was still off, and she could see his muscles and scars and-

With a strangled yell, she turned right around and curled up in a little ball, rocking back and forth, muttering. I did not see anything, I did not see anything, I did not see anything, she thought.

The merchant looked at Smith, impressed. "That didn't take as long as you said it would." He pulled out five caps. "Guess you win."

He shrugged and took them. "Told you I have that effect on people." He pulled his shirt and jacket on, laughing. That was just priceless.

They started up again once she recovered from her breakdown. This time, Smith brought up the back, and he very much appreciated the view. Wilson was still shaking a bit from the incident, and her grip on the rifle was much more lax, as was her posture.

Smith, by contrast, was energetic and more than ready for a fight. His hands drifted to his pistols occasionally, and he fired off a few shots at stray molerats and dogs, missing completely.

"That's a waste of bullets," Wilson said, recovering. _He does not scare me, he does not scare me..._

"Oh, is it? Why don't you teach me how to shoot?" he said.

She rolled her eyes. _Typical Wastelander._ She moved behind him, placing her hands on his and aimed the pistol, adjusting it as she saw fit. "What you do is relax and breathe-"

"Mmhmm," he said, leaning back ever so slightly.

"And you raise the pistol here-"

"That's good. I think I'm getting it now," he said.

"You breathe out as you concentrate-"

"That's fine but could you lean up against me some more? That really helps me concentrate."

Her eyes widened as she fell back, right on her behind. Smith cackled. "You really make this too easy." He twirled his pistols and shot a passing bird with ease. "Did you honestly think I couldn't shoot?"

Wilson picked up her rifle. Inside, she told herself, _I will kill this bastard if he does one more stunt, I will kill this bastard if he does, I will kill this bastard, I will kill-_

They kept walking. Wilson kept entertaining the different ways she could kill Smith. One in particular struck her as quite fitting. Although she wasn't quite sure she could fit that many plasma grenades in that particular orifice.

Smith was entertaining the many ways he could irritate her to the breaking point. _Maybe if I pretend to fall into a hole, have her jump in to try and rescue me, and then I reveal myself and start pissing into the hole. That's not too bad..._

Then Smith heard it. A pounding in the distance. A roar. A scream. A howl. The earth shook quietly but steadily. He saw the animals flee, and the water began to tremble.

He pulled out his pistols. It, whatever it was, was coming, and it was pissed.

Wilson noticed him and smirked. "You're jumpy, Wastelander. It's just a caravan, not a supermu-" she said, right before the giant mass of green slammed into her.

Smith scratched his head with a pistol. Well, what do you know, he thought. It's a goddamn supermutant. He hadn't seen one in years and forgot how ugly they were. Its face was squashed together, and he couldn't see a neck at all. He could, however, see its bulging and terrifying muscles.

_Oh. I just pissed my pants again. And I just changed too._

It held her above its head, shouting and screaming and spitting with rage. The merchant raised his rifle and charged valiantly but was swatted away and flew at least ten feet, landing with a sick splurch onto his brahmin.

Wilson shouted and screamed and spat too with equal rage. A bad idea, considering some of their spit mixed and fell onto Wilson, causing her to gag and vomit in her mouth. She tried to shoot the mutant but ended up dropping it when it shook her too hard.

"I, for one, think that is in fact a super mutant," Smith said, grinning in spite of the situation.

"Shut up and help me!" she screamed. She tried struggling out of its hold but only managed to rip her armor, giving Smith quite a nice view of her assets.

"Now now, if you wanted to give me a show, you should do it in private, not in front of our guests, sweetheart. Unless you like an audience. I'm cool with that."

"For God's sake, get serious!"

Despite his jokes, Smith was serious. He had two .32 pistols, and he was trying to go up against a super mutant. Those weren't good odds. And unlike raiders, super mutants don't play poker.

"Come on, green bastard." Smith twirled his pistols in the air as he circled it slowly, letting the sun glint off the metal and reflect into its eyes, causing it to flinch. "Let's dance."

It howled at him, already lost in the throes of blood thirst and charged at him. Smith rolled out of the way, firing a few shots when finished. The bullets buried itself into its hide, causing it to shriek in pain and drop Wilson. It turned slowly and faced him, its mouth stretched into a bloody maw of unholiness and hell.

_I think I just pissed it off. Shit. And I pissed my pants again. Double shit._

He sunk down lower in his stance. "Toro toro toro, you ugly piece of crap, come and get me."

The ugly piece of crap ran faster this time, barely giving Smith time to roll backwards. He shot another time but realized the futility of this. _It's like a little sting to it. It's making it angry, but it sure as hell isn't going to kill it._

Which meant he was going to die here if he didn't find a way.

It charged again. This time, Smith slid under it, shooting its legs. It stumbled, and then he saw it.

A scar, a fresh one, one someone had taken the trouble of stitching together, right on the side of its stomach. And Wilson's rifle was just a few yards away.

It stood back up, but Smith was already moving. He grabbed the laser rifle and fired it once. He missed, but it got its attention long enough for him to pull out his knife and charge at it. The mutant swung at him, but Smith used the arm as a stepping stool and launched himself into the air. He fired one shot with the rifle, this time connecting with the shoulder, even though he had aimed for the foot. _Hell, I'll take it._

It collapsed again, letting a loose a monster of a yelp. Smith landed behind it, rolling before he turned and moved forward rapidly, his next moves happening in mere seconds.

His knife shone in the bright sunlight with an evil glint as it descended in a small arc into the scar. Ripping a new gash into its stomach, he forced the rifle in there, ignoring the blood splattering onto his face. Then he pulled the trigger.

Next thing Smith knew, the rifle glowed brightly as a giant red laser burst from inside. The mutant exploded, blood and gore splattering all over the place. Smith was launched into the air and fell into a ditch, landing with a sickening crunch.

He laid there, breathing heavily. His hand had the tell-tale smell of laser burns, and he couldn't reach the stimpacks in his backpack without a jolt of pain shocking through his arm. And then she appeared in front of him, her silhouette blocking the sun.

"You broke my rifle," she said, eyes narrowing, tapping her foot. Her armor was fixed now, and she seemed in fairly good condition. _While I, on the other hand, am a mess._

"But I did save you," Smith said. Surely she wasn't angry at him now of all times.

Yet she was. "You blew up my rifle." She held up the remaining pieces. Ash black, it resembled a skeletal mockery of a laser rifle. An intestine was draped over it, which Wilson brushed off with disgust. "It was custom made."

"I did not know that was possible." Smith was telling the truth. He was hoping to accidentally rupture a major organ, not blow it the living hell out of it.

She nodded. "I understand." Then she shot his leg with her pistol.

He screamed and grabbed his leg, but more in pain than to staunch the bleeding. The laser had cauterized the wound.

She threw her head back and laughed. Slowly, she pulled out a stimpack and shot him up, avoiding the leg. He was going to be crippled until they reached the Citadel.

They spent about an hour gathering their things and fixing up the merchant and his caravan. Despite being a paladin undercover, he lived off the goods he sold and couldn't lose a cap. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the remains of the rifle but didn't say anything. It still wasn't his problem.

They finally finished clean up duty. They walked south, him limping behind her, cursing under bated breath. "Saved her life and she shoots me. What the hell?"

She was smiling the whole way, like a little roach full of rotten flesh and sated from the corpses. It was disgusting to Smith, though at the moment, everything seemed disgusting to him. The gore was still sticking to his suit, and no amount of washing was going to get rid of it.

Eventually, the Citadel appeared in the horizon. The pentagon rose up proudly, shining as if new. It had been heavily repaired in the last few years, more for aesthetics than practicality. There was little use in having a fortress when there were no enemies to defend against. Even the super mutants these days didn't wander here. They preferred preying on caravans, something Smith wished he remembered a few hours ago.

The gate was open, and traders of all sorts were entering. It was a settlement now, not a base, even if the Brotherhood controlled it. And it smelled like one as well. Whereas before it smelled of metal and laser burns, there was a distinct life shot through it now. Roasting food, sounds of laughter, it was a town now. Filled with all the accompanying shit.

To his surprise, he saw a few women not from the Brotherhood there. And not mercenaries either. Honest to god women, makeup and everything. They flirted with a few of the young initiates, fluttering their eyes as they blushed.

Smith waited for one of them to approach him, but none did. He frowned as he passed through the courtyard. And here he thought he was a catch. Then he remembered he was covered in super mutant chunks. _That's probably it._

As they approached one of the doors, he turned to Wilson, one final grin spreading across his face.

"I think this is where you weep and cry to me that you've never been loved and really just wanted someone who understood her and were just lashing out at the one person you thought could love. Then I take you in my arms and kiss you slowly and touch you everywhere; then we can waltz in the barracks and make sweet-"

Wilson, outraged, swung her rifle at him, but he caught it easily. He wagged his finger. "Now this," he said while pulling it away from her with a twist of the wrist, "this is not a bat. You don't just swing it about." He raised his palm. "This, on the other hand-"

He hit her, his palm impacting against her chin. She fell the ground, unconscious.

"You really should wear a helmet." He spat on her body. "That's what you get for shooting me." He kicked her side. "And that's just because I don't like you."

The "merchant" walked over and swung her body over his shoulder. "I'll just be taking her to the infirmary then." He raised in hand in farewell and left.

Smith nodded. Then he opened the door, trying not to flinch when his hand screamed at him. That attack hurt a lot more than he thought it would. And kicking with his crippled leg was probably a bad idea.

Inside, a hallway stretched on pass him. It would be easy to get lost if one did not his way. Smith did. Or he thought he did. He ended up making a few wrong turns and walked into the laboratory. He was then chased out by several mad scientists who didn't want the guts to contaminate their results.

And so he walked on until he reached the room he knew all his problems were in. He double-checked first, of course. But it was indeed the room.

He entered. Waiting inside were the individuals that held his life in their hands. His entire life was flashing before his eyes.

"I'm here."

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><p><strong>Ooh, I'm here. Dramatic entrance. I know the ending there was a bit of a cop out, and I might fix that later, but at least it semi-makes sense. Also, the action scene. How'd I do ? This chapter originally had a lot more dialogue and no supermutant, but I thought that went against what I was going for. The cut dialogue will probably come up in the next chapter, which means there might not be any action. I'll see what I can do, though. Thanks for reading.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3: Hell's Bells

**Thanks for reading this. I really appreciate it. And now for a few words to the reviewers. Geraldford, some of those ideas do sound interesting, but I'm not doing a training montage. Sorry. Feel free to send me any other ideas, preferably by pm. MrSquidly, thanks. I like how it's going, and I think it'll go on for a while.**

**I actually ended up writing this chapter two times. The first time was cut from chapter two and then thrown away since it was too parody-like. I kept a few lines. And hey, keep reviewing. Tell me how it sounds to you guys.**

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><p>War and death never seemed quite as appealing as it did in that moment. For in that moment, all hell was breaking loose.<p>

"Casdin, if you insult me one more time, I swear, I will string you up and hang you on the goddamn walls naked for all to see. Then I'll rip off your balls and feed them to the ferals. Hell, I might just piss on you, for all the crap you're saying here."

"For the love of God, Lyons, your father was a sentimental fool, and if you don't even consider my offer, you are as well. Just think about it rationally."

Screams. Shouting. A tall figure in black and red Outcast armor against Lyons in her typical power armor. It was hell's bells in there, rifles raised, heads in sight, and not a soul was exempt in this insanity.

"Rationally? I will not abandon Megaton just so you can use it for your damn excavations. There are people there, Casdin! How can you just ignore that? How is that rational? What are you even looking for?" Lyons said, unfazed by the guns pointed at her. She had fought, teeth and nails, through an entire platoon of Enclave before, and she sure as hell would not let these Outcasts scare her. She would be strong. "Is it worth all those lives? Is it?"

"That's Outcast business." Casdin crossed his arms, and in response, his troops behind him aimed all of their guns on Lyons alone, uncaring their lives were now forfeit in a firefight. The argument had gone on for several hours now, and neither side had gained any ground. If anything, things were worse. One twitch, and a firefight would break out in the middle of the Citadel.

"Outcast business? You want us to damn an entire town, and you won't tell us why? What the hell, Casdin? We are not discussing this," Lyons said, pounding the table to accentuate her point. This was supposed to be a meeting about the possibility of reunification, and here they were, repeating the same discussion that led to the rift. "We are not going to agree."

Casdin laughed. "A town? They're Wastelanders, Lyons. They're not worth a damn. If we just ignore them for one moment, we can make so many new discoveries. We could unlock the secrets behind technology man hasn't utilized in-"

"Just shut up and leave," Lyons said. Her eyes locked on his, and her mouth was set in a hard line. Even after all these years as Elder, she was having a very hard time keeping her cool. But if she reacted too violently, they could cause another war, one the Wasteland was not ready for. "Your bullshit is not welcome here. We are not the Enclave. We are not emotionless bastards with no regard for human life."

"Human life? You call that trash human?" Casin said. His hand spread wide as his mouth opened again. "That is not humanity, it's a tragedy. An accident. And you've welcomed them here. Non-humans. Ghouls. That damn super mutant. Even that freak Wanderer..."

"You've used him before, and you had no problem with it. He is an asset-"

"He is a goddamn accident waiting to happen. He's mutated more times than we can count, and he's killed fifty of my men!"

"Your men were attacking a water caravan just because he had scavenged a robot under your noses."

"That technology could have had unknown secrets. He was jeopardizing science!" he said, throwing his arms up in frustration. "He was jeopardizing mankind's progress!"

"And you were jeopardizing a goddamn settlement. Arefu needed that water! Because of you, a dozen children died from the plague from the delay. How does that make you feel, Casdin? How does it feel to be a baby-killer? Is it worth your science? Is it?"

Casdin shook his head. "It was a tragedy, but an acceptable loss," he maintained. "The ends outweigh the means."

"Acceptable losses?" Lyons ripped off her gauntlet and flung it at him. "You're a monster, you know that? When will you figure it out? There is no such thing as acceptable losses. Just excuses for sadistic bastards like you."

He caught the gauntlet with ease, though his eyes flared dangerously for a moment. "You shut up, Lyons. You shut up now. You do not understand what I've done, what sacrifices I've made, what kind of burden I've had to carry. I'm asking you, as a former comrade-in-arms, to reconsider. There is something in Megaton. Something big. And if we just sweep it away, we could use it. We could rebuild."

"Rebuild. Sweep away. You're speaking of genocide. Of cold-blooded murder. You really going to do that, Casdin? We won't. And if you so much as spit in Megaton, I will kill you and your goddamn Outcasts. This is not going to happen. End of story."

"You little bitch, we had-"

The door swung open. "I'm here."

All eyes turned to him. Smith stopped in his tracks and looked around. "Am I- interrupting something?" he said, suddenly feeling like a deer trapped in a deathclaw's eyes. He fidgeted, his leg screaming at him to sit, but his better sense told him to run the hell away. "I should leave, shouldn't I?"

Lyons shook her head slowly. "No. We're done here." She raised her arm level and pointed at the door. "It was good seeing you, Casdin," she spat. "Don't let the door smack you on your way out."

"This isn't over. We will find whatever is hiding there." Casdin and his troops turned and began to leave until he had a look at Smith. He paused. He took a step closer to him. He looked at him closely. "I know you."

"Do you, now?" Smith said with a nervous smile. "Maybe I was in your dreams or something. I get that a lot. Should I look for your bastard son then?"

"No. I've seen you somewhere before." He scrutinized his appearance for a moment, looking at his eyes, his suit, and his legs. "But where?" Then he saw the scars on his hands. "You-"

Slam! Casdin shoved him against the wall. Smith's bones groaned as his power armor-induced strength strained his body. He growled, "What the hell?" He turned to Lyons. "Is this the trash you associate with, Lyons? This-" He smacked Smith's jaw with a resounding crack. "Freak. This monster."

Blood began to drip from Smith's mouth, tracing a line down his chin. He struggled out of his grip but couldn't move. The power armor gave him more strength than Smith could ever hope to muster. His body was slowly going numb, and his face turned blue. "No-" he managed to say in a strangled voice. "Don't-"

"Put him down, Casdin!" Lyons shouted. She made a move towards them, but the Outcasts raised their rifles in warning. "He's one of our allies!"

"Ally?" Casdin said. "This bastard is yours?" He let his finger on his chin drift slowly down. "He killed my men. Tore them into little itty-bitty pieces." His head turned to Lyons as his mouth spread in a mocking smile. "And now-" He pulled his fist back and let it hit his face one last time. "I'm going to kill him."

"Drop him."

Casdin turned. "Who said that?"

"I did."

The Wanderer entered the room, still in his shining white power armor, and placed one hand on Casdin's shoulder. "Now, let him go," he said, letting his anger leak into his voice. "Now."

All eyes were on them. Few had seen the Wanderer in person before, and he struck an imposing figure. The Outcasts looked amongst each other, unsure of what to do.

But Casdin was not afraid. He had faced better foes in his lifetime; nothing would stop him, not even that freak.

"I'm going to teach him a lesson. I'm going to rip his little beating heart out and eat it like the animal he is. Or maybe I'll just have drawn and quartered. Or hell, why don't I take a page out of his book and tear him into little pieces." Casdin squeezed, causing a crunch to fill the room. Smith cried out, his arm hanging now uselessly. "So many options. I'll just experiment then." With that, he twisted the broken arm again, the bone tearing through the skin.

The Wanderer tightened his grip on his shoulder. "I won't ask again. Let him go before I hurt you," he said.

Casdin smirked. His own power armor protected him from any pain the Wanderer attempted to inflict. He was in control. Not this pretentious bastard. Licking his lips, he spoke his next words with loving hatred.

"Go to hell."

Then it all fell apart. The Wanderer pushed him down suddenly to the floor, his armor letting loose a high-pitched scream from the effort. Casdin fell to his knees. His armor bent with ease, resembling a torn tin can. Smith fell as well into a pile, unable to summon any strength.

101 slammed his knee into Casdin's face. Casdin was knocked backwards, blood spurting out his nose and mouth. When his troops stepped forward to help, 101 turned his attention to them. He grabbed the closest and threw him over his shoulder in one graceful motion. Another aimed his rifle, but much too slow. He tore it out of his hands effortlessly and elbowed his jaw, knocking him out cold. He swung the rifle in a clean sweep, taking down yet another fool who stood too close to the massacre.

Charging forward, the remaining two pulled out Rippers, chainblades of death and pain and brutality. But the Wanderer didn't even flinch. He let them come closer, waiting until one swung, then side stepped him, grabbing his arm as he spun, then pulling straight down. As one fell, the last let his blade fall in a deadly arc. The Wanderer rolled away and behind him and then kicked him right between the legs. With one final groan, he fell, clutching his crotch.

Five knocked unconscious. Completely unarmed. The room blinked with disbelief in their eyes, looking back and forth from the bodies to the man standing above them.

He pulled off his helmet and spat upon their bodies. "You do not mess with my student," said the Wanderer.

Smith tried to laugh but instead gurgled blood. "I'm not your student." He moaned as he rolled to his side, putting his bad arm on the top but letting his bad leg support him. "Ouch."

"Like hell." The Wanderer grabbed him and pulled him up, supporting him on his shoulder. "I'm taking you to the infirmary."

"No!" Smith said, then winced as the pain hit. "No," he said, softer this time. "Just give me some Med-X."

"You're hurt, idiot. You need medical attention," the Wanderer said. His frustration was evident in his voice. "You're hurt, goddamn it."

"You're probably right. I'll get some help later. But right now," he said, struggling towards a chair, "I got a debriefing to sit through." He turned toward the unconscious Outcasts. "Well, after they're gone at least." Smith smiled, letting his bloodstained teeth show.

A few knights stood up and began dragging the bodies away. The Wanderer stared at Smith but finally nodded reluctantly. He pulled out some Med-X as well as a stimpack from his armor. "You're taking this too, unless you want to puking blood all over to the table," he said, attending to his wounds.

"A good idea. Wouldn't want to ruin the table. All lovely it is, teak and such," he said, smile still pressed on his face. "Ouch!" He turned to the Wanderer. "Here's an idea. Shoot me up with morphine before you start poking needles through me."

"Shut up."

Smith laughed, wiping the blood away from his face. "Ah, shit." He looked at his dirty sleeve for a second. "Now there's more blood on this thing." He scratched his head with his good arm. "Anyone know a good tailor?"

They all looked at him with shock and confusion. Understandable. A man laughing on his death bed was a harrowing sight to even the most hardened of soldiers. They looked at his bloody face, his greasy and dusty hair. They saw his hands and the pale white scars that stood out against the tanned skin. They remembered the rumors of the mercenary called Smith and how he used only pistols because rifles would give him too unfair of an advantage. They watched his maniacal laughter. None spoke for a long time. And when one did speak, those words did imprint themselves on every persons' mind.

"You are one annoying shithead, you know?."

Smith looked surprised, as did everyone else in the room. "What?"

"You heard me. Shit. Head."

Some of the older ones were horrified at these words. The younger ones remained silent, though inside they were impressed. Smith was confused. And offended. Or he would be, if he wasn't riding the morphine high.

"Yeah..." he said, drawing out each syllable, "a shithead. You have some serious balls, mungo, coming here after all this time and then causing a mess like that. Think I ought to shove my boot right up your-"

"Oh-kay, you can just shut up now," a female voice said. "Like now. Seriously. Shut up, Robert. You're making us look bad right now. He's bleeding, for God's sakes."

"No, I gotta put this dirty little shit bag in his place. I got five words. Suck- on-my-"

"Robert?" Smith said, comprehension dawning on him and breaking the high in seconds. "No way? MacCready?"

"In the flesh, mungo. Little bastard. I'm gonna beat the crap out of you when you stop bleeding all over the place. Actually waltzing in here and causing a goddamn fight like that, I swear-"

"MacCready," Smith repeated. "My God. That's just- wrong. That's just wrong. What the hell is MacCready doing here? And why does he have power armor?"

The Wanderer glanced up, finishing up with his arm. "That would be because he's part of the Brotherhood."

He froze. "You're joking." He looked back and forth between the members of the table, stoic and serious. "You've got to be joking. MacCready, Brotherhood? That is a mean joke to play on a dying man."

"First of all, you're not dying anymore. Second-" the Wanderer grinned, eyes glinting like a deadly knife finishing its swing, "that's not even the good part."

"The good part? What the hell is the good part?" Smith said, trying to stand up taller. "Someone tell me the good part."

MacCready saluted, a big fat grin plastered on his face. Licking his lips, he said, "Robert J. MacCready, Knight, reporting for duty, mungo bastard."

His mouth opened disbelievingly. "He's not my-"

Lyons spoke up, the corner of her mouth turned up. "Yes, he is." She gestured at MacCready. "Meet your second in command, Smith."

Smith rocked back and forth. Then his eyes rolled over, and he passed out. The Wanderer looked at him for a moment and then slapped him a few times, making sure he was unconscious.

"That went well," Lyons commented. She was worried he would start vomiting all over the place.

"Better than I thought it would," the Wanderer said. He stood up and threw him over his shoulder. "I'm taking him to the infirmary. He's lost too much blood already, the fool."

The room nodded in unison. Smith needed medical attention as soon as possible.

He walked away, carrying the body with him.

After they were sure the two were out of earshot, the room exploded with chatter.

"What the hell are we going to do about the Outcasts?" one shouted. He had experience with them before and found it a harrowing experience.

"Should we send a small guard to Megaton?" a younger initiate asked. She was only allowed in the room due to her lineage, which stretched longer than any could remember.

Cross suggested, "What if we attack the outposts? That could delay them indefinitely."

"No! We should cut our losses and just let it go. We have more important tasks in front of us," one of the older paladins said. He was one of the original dispatch and came very close to leaving when the schism occurred. "We're just looking for technology, not this moral bullshit."

"Are you out of your mind? Then we'd be no better than the Outcasts. We will not become the very enemy we've been fighting against for the last few decades!" Dusk shouted. She was completely loyal to Lyons. And with good reason. After all these years serving together, she was confident in her leader's ability to make decisions.

"But just think about it. What if we move the citizens from the town? Then we could let the Outcasts in and no one gets hurt!" a pragmatist said. He was a scribe and was interested in whatever technology the Outcasts had discovered.

"That's not a bad compromise. No war, no fighting."

"We can't force them to abandon their homes. And do you realize how many people live in Megaton? We do not have enough troops for a mission that large," one of the more practical members said. She had dealt with forming these squads for this sort of mission and knew better than anyone how difficult it would be. "Unless you're proposing we divert all of our soldiers there, we have to find another way."

A knight said, "Where would we even put them? There's nowhere to support a population that big." He was an active dispatch, often guiding water caravans to settlements. "Hell, I don't even know how Megaton fits them all."

"What about the Citadel?"

"What? No! We're already stretched thin as it is. I don't even think Rivet City has room for that many."

"Then what the hell do we do?"

"We should-"

"But then-"

"Maybe we could-"

"SHUT UP!"

The room fell silent as Lyons stood tall, her presence commanding the attention of all. She locked eyes with each member in the room one by one. "Whatever we do, it will not be done through mindless arguing." Grudgingly, each lowered their eyes. "We have to figure this out together. Is that understood?" They nodded. "Good. Meeting adjourned."

They left slowly, their bodies blocking the doorway. Mumbling of dissent would occasionally come into hearing, but Lyons didn't care. She had feelings of dissent as well.

She sat down and slumped in her chair. She muttered to herself, "Dad would've been better at this."

Only one heard her. Cross, and she wouldn't dare speak of it in a room filled with this much tension. Her insecurity would be a topic for later days and later lectures.

Hell's bells, and the day wasn't done yet. She still had to propose the new expedition south. They knew a squad was being formed, but most thought it might be a combat mission against the Outcasts, not a trek across more than 700 miles. They wouldn't respond well to that.

She tried to clear her head by rubbing her temples but failed.

She just wasn't cut out for this anymore. She was better suited for battle and showdowns, in the heart of hellfire and bullets. Not leading. Not decision making. She hated every moment of this crap. How would she continue this?

_But not for much longer,_ she thought, a bitter smile spreading across her face. _Because I've only got one more year, don't I? And I'm leaving one hell of a mess as a legacy._

She threw her head back and screamed. And it felt good.

* * *

><p>Wilson woke up, the sting of alcohol attacking her nose. She winced as she stood up. God, she had one hell of a headache. That bastard had hit her. And it hurt like a goddamn deathclaw had drilled right into her brain.<p>

A nurse passed her by. Wilson grabbed her by the collar and brought her close. "Where is he?"

The nurse fidgeted nervously, which to Wilson, appeared guilty of conspiracy. "I don't know who you're talking about, miss."

"Don't give me that crap. Where's that bastard who put me here? Come on, tell me!" she said, lips drawn back in a snarl. "I'm going to-"

"Do nothing."

"What?" she said, turning to the source of the voice. The figure was obscured by a white curtain. "Who said that?"

"Dear God, why is it that no one can see me? Am I a ghost?" The Wanderer stepped from behind the curtain and shook his head with annoyance. "I swear, if one more person says that..."

"Sir!" Wilson shouted, drawing her hand back in a salute, smacking her head hard enough to make the headache worse. "Initiate May Wilson, reporting for duty-"

"Shut up and skip the damn protocol." 101 sat down on the side of the bed near the curtain and pulled a bottle from behind the bed. Noticing her expression, he chuckled. "I know where the nurses keep their best booze." He opened it and offered it to her. "Want some?"

She shook her head. "I-don't drink, sir." The last she had alcohol, she woke up bare-naked outside the Citadel's walls, right next to a brahmin getting too intimate with her. Ever since then, alcohol and her had an estranged relationship.

"Neither did Smith. Well, until he had his first sip." He pulled out a small glass and poured some into it.

"Where the hell is he? Uh, sir." Wilson wrung her hands nervously, unsure of how to act around the legendary soldier. She had heard of his blatant disregard of protocol and tradition, but seeing it in person was a jarring experience. She thought he would be a chivalrous knight, not this. "I need to find him."

"If I tell, are you going to kill him?" 101 asked, raising an eyebrow. He took a sip and turned the glass over on the table nearby. Amber drops fell slowly onto it.

"Well, yeah, sir. He assaulted me in the courtyard and knocked me unconscious. It's within my rights to kill him, sir," Wilson said. She watched the amber drops cling to the glass and wondered who was going to clean that up.

"Is it now?" He turned his glass back up and poured some more into it. "It's generally a bad idea to insult a student in front of his teacher, Miss Wilson."

"Student?" she said, a look of surprise appearing on her face. That annoying bastard was the Lone Wanderer's student? "I- well I- that's-"

The Wanderer laughed and finished his glass. "He's in the bed right next to yours." He picked up the bottle and the glass. He stood up and walked a few steps before turning. "Try not to hurt him too badly, 'kay?" He left.

Wilson didn't move for a few moments. She wasn't sure what just happened, but she just got permission to beat up Smith, which was good enough for her. She stood up, moving her hands forward as the blood rushed away from her head. Wilson threw back the curtain and prepared to attack, mouth opening as she began to scream a rebel yell-

Then she stopped. "Holy crap."

Smith's face was a bloody mess of bruises, a scar running from his right eye down to the opposite jawline, a large purple splotch setting itself on his right cheek. His left arm was in a cast, some of the blood and fluids leaking through and falling on the bed. His leg was suspended a few inches above the bed, crippled and now useless. She did that, she thought guiltily. He's a goddamn mess.

Smith opened his eyes. "Well now, if you wanted to wake me up, all you have to do is kiss me," he said, bringing his face uncomfortably close.

With a quick yelp, she stumbled back. "I thought-"

"I was dead?" he said, winking at her. "Do I really look that bad?" He put his hand on his face, trying to feel his injuries. "I feel better than I look. Well, I think I do." He looked at her. "You have a mirror? Nah, I think I'll just look at my reflection in your eyes," he said. "And what beautiful eyes there are."

She shook her head, shaking off the bad attempts at humor. "What happened to you?"

"I fell."

"You fell," she repeated. "Your arm's broken, and you have a million scars on your face. And you're telling me you fell."

He grinned. "I fell really, really hard. Right after Casdin broke my arm, anyway. And my face." He tried sitting up but failed. "It doesn't look like I'll be leading a squad anytime soon."

She touched his face and felt his wounds. "That's going to leave a scar," she said softly.

"Maybe it will make me look more scary," he said. "Then people won't call me useless idiots."

She felt guilty. "I didn't-"

"Yeah, you did. You even shot me after I saved your life."

They were silent. No one knew what to say. Finally, she spoke up.

"That thing you did, with the super mutant. Was that from him? The Wanderer, I mean."

"The rolling?" She nodded. "Yeah. He used to tell me staying still was the stupidest thing you could do in a fight. He would shoot me with his little BB gun. If I didn't move fast enough, I'd get nailed right in the head." He shook his head. "That bastard."

"So why don't you join the Brotherhood? You've learned from the best. You could be a Knight Captain by now. You could-"

He raised his finger. "Let's not go there, alright? We should sit here in silence and look in each other's eyes, speaking of our love in silence."

She laughed but then tried to stifle it with her hand. He smiled and laid back in his bed. He continued, "Hey, can you reach behind the bed? There should be some alcohol there."

Surprised by his request, she complied, pulling out a bottle and handing it to him. "The Wanderer did the same thing."

"Did he? Well, he always did know where the best booze was." He turned to her again. "Reach into my backpack, will you? There's a glass there, right next to the caps."

She pulled out the glass, unwrapping the cloth surrounding it, noting the many compartments inside. She noticed a .44 Magnum inside and wondered why he never used it against the super mutant. "Here," she said, handing it over.

"Fantastic," he said, prying the bottle open with his mouth and pouring it with his one good hand. He sipped it slowly. "Ah, a scotch. Just need a molerat sandwich, and it would all be perfect."

"Should you really be drinking right now?" she said. "I mean, you're in the infirmary and bleeding everywhere-"

"Am I? Huh. I thought I just peed myself again." He finished the glass and turned it over on his bed. "That's a relief. The nurses won't laugh at me next time they change the sheets."

"No, that's not- the alcohol. Won't it-"

He raised his finger. "Calm down. It's one glass, and it's just a little one too. It won't kill me." He handed her back the bottle. "Just let me have that little vice, okay?"

She sighed and put it back behind the headboard. "Why aren't you with him anymore?"

"That would be because I don't swing that way."

"Lay off the jokes."

"I can't help it. I'm just that charming of a gentleman."

She made a face that suggested how charming she found him, which is to say, not at all. He drank copious amounts of alcohol and made lascivious jokes. She had met better raiders.

"Fine, fine. I'll say it." Smith scratched his nose absent-mindedly. "He-uh- he killed my parents." He turned and smiled. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Wilson's mouth fell open. "What?"

"You heard me. He killed my parents. And he's probably going to kill more of my family." He knocked over the glass while shifting his weight. "Ah, damn. The nurses are going to kill me."

"That's horrible," she said. She unconsciously leaned forward. "He really did that?"

Smith looked at her and smirked. "Now now, Wilson. Come any closer, and I'll think you actually care."

She retreated back, but not before Smith caught her blush. He chuckled. Even bedridden, he still had it.

"I'm over it. Really, I am. They deserved it. They deserved to die," he repeated. "They did some terrible things in the name of survival. They-" he paused here, "killed some people."

She nodded. "I know what you mean."

"Do you now?"

"Yeah," she said, sitting down on the bed next to him. "I've seen a lot of people kill just to survive. It's not as bad as you think. Sometimes you do what you need to do to survive."

Smith smiled. Oh, she had no idea what she was saying, did she? But that was to be expected. She was Brotherhood, born and bred, through and through. "He still killed them."

"Then why-"

"Why? Why do I hate the man who killed my parents? What kind of question is that?" he said, harsher than he intended.

"No- why did the man who killed your parents take you in as his student?"

Smith stared at the blank wall. Why? That was a variation of a question he had asked himself for a long. Why did he keep him alive? Answering both questions, he said, "I don't know."

They were quiet again. Wilson watched him scratch his cast. She didn't stop him.

"Why did he kill them?" she finally asked.

He glanced at her briefly then returned to scratching his arm. "That, my dear," he said with a grin, "is my little secret."

Wilson kept an eye on him for a few minutes. Then she heard the snoring. Wilson left. She had business to take care of.

Smith opened his eyes again. She was gone. He watched the wall again. He could hear the shouting outside his door. He tried to fall asleep but couldn't.

Hell's bells, all the world's a-ringing, and there wasn't a soul to shut it up.

* * *

><p><strong>So how'd I do? Yet another action scene, and this time Smith ate shit. And Wilson made another appearance. I intended to not use ever again in the story, but she made an alright OC. And MacCready. Good ol' MacCready. In the game, he has some of the best lines, and I want to do the same thing here. He makes such an awesome jerk.<strong>

**Again, please review, or subscribe, or just send me a message. Feel free to criticize me, but make it specific. Who has the best lines so far? **


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